


Empathy, Pointed On Both Ends

by morbiditty



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Hannibal x Will - Freeform, Hannigraham - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Porn With Plot, S&M, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Will x Hannibal, Winnibal, dark themes, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbiditty/pseuds/morbiditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodies are found dismembered in garbage bags. Will thinks the killer is looking for a cure to loneliness with the dead. This new case is testing his limits, and Hannibal is caught in the midst of his growing madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: In Hannibal's Office

**Author's Note:**

> If it helps, you can imagine this takes place shortly after the episode with Georgia Madchen, S01E10 "Buffet Froid".
> 
> Part 1: Where Will admits he's lonely.

 

> I'm worried about you, Will. You empathize so completely with the killers Jack Crawford has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself? Or someone else? I don't want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.

* * *

"Are you recreating her fantasies? Tell me about them," Hannibal said. He was standing in his office, one hand in his pocket and the other arched elegantly on his desk. Will stood a few yards away, the desk between them. Will felt somewhat uncomfortable under Hannibal's hawkish stare and showed it in his awkward posture. He took a hesitant step forward, deep in thought.

It was just past 7:30pm, and only a moment ago Will had come storming into the office with a haunted look, easily recognized. Dr. Lecter knew  Will's mind was preoccupied with the newest murder. Their brief conversation so far had been solely about the case.

Will looked in Hannibal's direction as he pushed his hands into his pant's pockets, but his gaze wasn't focused on anything in particular. "She's... a he," he said.

Hannibal asked, "Are you certain about the sex?"

Will looked at him directly. There was a strange quirk to Hannibal's mouth, and his eyes were slanted, almost sensual. It was probably his imagination, but the way the good doctor said it was... distracting. He hesitated to reiterate, "The– the sex?", and his voice wavered. He cleared his throat. "No, we're pretty sure about that now. There was traces of– of semen– on the body, the latest one."

He continued sauntering around the room as he spoke. Hannibal, amused at Will's modesty, stayed still and watched. Will continued, "In the media they are already saying the killer is a misandrist, callously killing men and butchering them. By putting them in garbage bags the killer is telling the world they're trash. But the evidence points to something much different. This– This _man_ is in denial about his sexuality. He's fulfilling his desire for men with the corpses."

The investigator stopped in front of the table covered with drawings, the least neat place in the impeccable office. The drawings were exquisite, with lots of detail. He focused on them, willing himself to keep distracted from thinking too much. His hand hovered over them without touching.

Hannibal let him be for the moment. Will was in no condition to be working, due to half his brain playing mind games with itself. Only partly aware of this fact, Will was trying to power through, keep himself occupied with work, with "saving lives". This case was furthering his agitated state, however. It seemed that blood and gore was the norm, but this case had lust and sex involved, and Will was confounded by this (to Hannibal's delight).

After a sufficient time had passed, Hannibal continued with more questions. "So, he's a necrophiliac. Do you believe they are murders motivated by lust?"

Will shook his head, his face scrunching in puzzled disapproval. "Not quite. I mean, yes, there is lust involved. The latest body proves that. But I still don't believe it's _why_ he does it. I think... He kills them gently, like putting them to sleep. And when they're 'sleeping', he then becomes... aroused."

"A sentimental killer," Hannibal supplied.

Will agreed and said, "It was strange how clean the bodies were besides the gore from," he sliced his hand through the air once, with precision, " _butchering_ them. Now we know why. He was washing away fluids. Before. This new evidence marks a change in behavior, means he's becoming frenzied, reckless."

There was another pause. Hannibal can tell he's thinking, and remained silent.

Will's breath hissed out, frustrated. He turned abruptly from the table of drawings, began walking around aimlessly again but with agitated steps. "He _cares_ for these men, yet he throws them away like _refuse_. The victims are young; known partiers. These are people he meets on the street, at a bar or party... Yet he _cherishes_ them...?" He stopped beside the patient's chair, but didn't sit.

Hannibal was relaxed, his hands in his pockets, as he moved to his chair across from Will and asked, "When was the last time you were with someone, Will?"

The question came as a surprise. He must be asking for a good reason, but Will did not like where that road led. With a barely audible sigh he sat down, slowly leaning back but not relaxing. His face was hard, his shoulders tense. Hannibal unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in the chair across from him.

At first Will had no intention to talk about this. When he saw Hannibal coolly staring at him, however, he got defensive. Agitated, he said, "Not that it's your business—not that it matters—but not in a long time. And I'm fine with that. Well, I mean, not a _long_ time—" As he spoke he lost steam, becoming more disappointed than anything. "It's just– I don't ask girls on dates. Girls don't tend to, uh, invite me, either." His eyebrows rose and fell as if to shrug, _oh well_ , as his hands ran along the arms of the chair. Nervously his eyes wandered along the walls of the office.

Hannibal smoothed down the front of his waistcoat and licked his lips ponderously. An uncomfortable silence settled before Hannibal suggested, "Perhaps it's difficult for you to imagine, then—but, why would the killer invite someone home from a bar, for example?"

Will thought for a moment and said, as if asking for permission, "Because he plans on killing them?"

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what I think," Will lamented, shaking his head. His eyes darted about, taking in everything and nothing. "It just doesn't seem to fit. This... man—he treats them reverently. He cuts carefully, preserving as much of them as possible. Like maybe he loves them. He doesn't want them _dead_..."

Hannibal crossed his legs and perched his clasped hands on his knee. His head cocked to the side as he asked, "Do you ever feel lonely, Will?"

Will frowned, sat forward slightly; he didn't understand how this question was relevant to the case. A hint of frustration in his voice, he requested with sarcastic politeness, "Can we please talk about the case." He shook his head.

The look in his eyes reminded Hannibal of a startled deer. The psychologist untangled his fingers and pointedly raised them as if he hadn't meant to offend. "I'm sorry, Will. We _can_. In a moment." He appraised Will with intense interest from behind a blank mask of professionalism. "It has been some time since you kissed Dr. Bloom."

Will collapsed within the chair, bent. As he thought about a response, he stared vacantly at the upper level, with its rows of books. "At home I have my dogs," he said, quietly. "They keep me company."

Hannibal said, without hesitation, "I doubt your dogs are a complete replacement for human company."

Will tensed, let a self-deprecating smirk mar his face. "I have you for company, don't I, doctor?" They both knew he didn't have anyone.

Dr. Lecter's chin rose slightly, his shoulders squared and proud. "Will," he said, gently. "I consider you a friend. But... you are also my patient."

"Are you— _sad_?" Will asked bitingly, having detected something like it in the other's voice.

The other man's eyes travelled to one of his sleeves as he abruptly fixed it, though there was nothing wrong with it in the first place; his version of fidgeting. He breathed out roughly and said, "I _am_ sad." There was no feeling in his voice, however, and Will frowned more. His arms settled down and he grasped his knee loosely. "I am sad to see you like this, Will." He rose his gaze squarely onto Will and continued, "You sought stability in Alana Bloom. When she pushed you away, you seemed to get worse. Putting so much of yourself into work was just a way to ignore certain feelings. Am I wrong?"

Will angrily breathed out and pushed himself full throttle out of the chair. He moved deliberately away. As he spoke, one hand, tense and closed, lingered in the air, shaking, for emphasis. "I can't– I can't stop. You know this! What I'm doing saves lives!" He was fuming, halfway to raving. "You asked me if I feel _lonely_? I feel something _way_ beyond lonely, but—" He stopped here, livid; embarrassed and angry, his hand coming to rest on his hip. His back was to Hannibal.

Sudden realization struck him. Will uttered, "And that's... that's exactly how this killer feels." He turned to look at Hannibal, who had his head bowed. Feeling the gaze, Hannibal shifted in his chair and rose his head but did not turn to him.

Will faced forward again but muttered, "He's searching for some _connection_. He brings them home, thinking they will—I don't know, _connect_. He's scared to be alone. And so his 'guests' never leave— _alive_ , anyway."

The realization hung in the air; panic filled Will. Flashes of imagination pretending to be memory filled his vision. He saw a smallish living room, TV blaring, "his" bar buddy alive and well, sitting watching it. He saw his hands wrapping a cord around the man's neck; saw himself dragging the dead body to the bathtub.

For a brief moment, he felt like he was the killer. Had he lost time and didn't know it? Had he done this? He looked at his watch, willed himself to read the time. He whispered, "It's... 7:56pm. I'm in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Will Graham."

"Will," Hannibal called to him. His voice was soothing. Will wiped his face with both hands and blinked, looking blearily toward his psychologist but not at him.

"You did not commit these murders."

Will laughed, though it was not a happy sound. "I know I didn't, doctor. It's just good to _remind_ myself I didn't." He shook his head, putting his hands on his hips.

"Will, sit down," Dr. Lecter cajoled, putting his legs side-by-side and sitting forward with his elbows on his lap and his hands together. Will obeyed easily, coming over and slumping into the chair. Hannibal directed the conversation back to the case, and Will's doubt was briefly forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The killer is inspired by Dennis Nilsen.
> 
> I wrote most of this before episode 10 onward came out. I revised some things to reflect what happens later somewhat, but--like a mirror--it isn't what actually happened.
> 
> My tumblr is morbiditty.tumblr.com and my fanfic site is h3fanfics.wordpress.com.


	2. Part 2: In Will's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Will loses time and finds himself in his bathroom with a motionless body. A body he recognizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there aren't any character deaths in this!

> _"He told me he was sorry, to just hold still. He was gonna make it all go away."_

* * *

The FBI investigators were gathered in the morgue, looking at the body of the latest victim. "Bill Southland," Beverly Katz said, indicating the corpse. The dismembered pieces were arranged like a finished puzzle on the metal slab; a sheet covered the lower half. Will Graham only half-listened to Jimmy Price going over the details, summarizing their findings for Jack.

"His body was found dismembered in various trash bags beneath an avenue bush, just like the other bodies. The killer planted Bill there sometime within the last two weeks. A fresher kill than the others. MO is exactly the same, except that, thanks to Bill, we found out the killer is male. There was trace remains of semen. But we weren't able to get a solid DNA sample..."

As he droned on, Will could only think about his session with Hannibal last night. He'd had a breakthrough in the case, but he hadn't told anyone on the investigative team about it, yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Knowing he wasn't responsible didn't help him feel any less culpable. Will felt like this killer was incredibly similar to himself, and it scared him. He wagered the guy even had a dog, or 6. No, this seemed too personal to share.

Closing his eyes, he pictured the killer; probably caucasian, in his 30's or 40's, doubtfully involved in landscaping. Putting the bodies under rarely disturbed foliage had worked for awhile and he kept doing it, but the first time was done as an act of desperation and opportunity. This was someone who didn't want to get caught, but couldn't stop.

Beverly Katz began to speak, and Will tried to listen, tried to keep track of the conversation, but it was difficult. His breath was becoming heavy in his chest, his vision increasingly blurry.

"Bill was strangled, as indicated by the bruising around the neck, what we can see of it anyway. Probably with a thin rope or wire, but I wasn't able to find any traces of rope or another..."

Again, Will imagined a small home, perhaps an apartment or house. The dead bodies were kept around as ornaments or reminders. When they got to an advanced state of decomposition they were chopped up, bagged, and buried. After all, once they were rotten they no longer mattered. It was their bodies, warm and "sleeping", that he enjoyed.

* * *

The world crashed in around him. Where he was just a moment ago was gone, like a watercolor painting in a lake. His bathroom at home enfolded him on all sides, but that didn't make sense, since he was in Quantico, Virginia. In his hands he held a tie, which was still wrapped around someone's neck. Appalled, he loosened his hold, let it numbly slip through his fingers. The person fell face forward onto the wet tiles with a sickening thump.

Breathing hard, Will took in the scene. Perhaps it was shock but it took him some precious seconds to understand what was happening. The bathtub was full of water, and it was obvious that Will had taken this man, choking, and drowned him in the tub. Water had splashed everywhere, and their clothing was soaked.

"No," Will moaned, wanting to scream but his lungs and throat were too tight. "No, no no no..."

On the corners of his perception his whole body was aching, like he'd been struggling mightily. He'd been fighting with the person now on his floor. The person that was _not moving_.

Despite his condition he clamored over beside the body, finding it difficult to maneuver in the small, wet space, hindered by the exhaustion and pain. He pushed at the limp form until it flipped over. A mix between a dismayed moan and a choking gasp came from him, but he barely noticed. The person—limp yet real before him—was Hannibal. His face was splotched with red and blue, his eyes closed.

Will's fingers felt numb as he fumbled with the necktie around Dr. Lecter's neck. It was tied on in the traditional fashion, not merely wrapped around. He automatically deduced that it had been grabbed from the front and then pulled back, over the shoulder, by the way it was twisted and askew. There had been a struggle, one that tightened the knot, but Will tore at it desperately until it loosened. He yanked the necktie off once it was undone and threw it down; it landed with a soggy flop onto the flooded floor.

With shaking fingers he quickly undid the top few buttons of Hannibal's shirt, one of them popping off in the struggle, and pulled apart the edges. The damage showed clearly around his neck as an angry-red ring. Shaking violently, Will stared, afraid, and yet there was something thrilling— a feeling he stamped down immediately.

Tears streamed down his face as he knelt there, shaking, unable to move, to think. The rushing sound of blood filled his ears.

A moment later Hannibal stirred, enough for Will to see it through blurry eyes. "Hannibal?" he half-whispered. Was it a trick of his imagination? He almost didn't dare to hope.

A coughing fit shook Hannibal's body and then his eyes were flying open and he was gasping loudly. The first thing he saw was Will, his attacker, leaning over him.

Will was surprised, though in retrospect he felt he shouldn't have been, when Hannibal grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and half-pulled, half-pushed him down. Rising fluidly and fast, Hannibal tackled the investigator with greater strength than he seemed capable, using his body to press him into the corner where the porcelain tub met the floor.

Hands wrapped around Will's neck. Instinct took over and Will resisted, pushing up at Hannibal's shoulders, kicking his feet. The pressure on his neck joined in with the chorus of pain flaring through his chest. He halted his struggle for a moment, enough for him to regain his sense of the situation.

 _Hannibal's not dead_. That was all he cared about at the moment. He went limp, hoping—perhaps trusting—Hannibal to let him go. When all breath stopped it was exquisitely frightening, but Will forced himself to bear it.

After a few seconds he found he didn't have to force himself to relax anymore. He was already relaxed. He met Hannibal's eyes, expecting to find anger there, but instead they were cold, menacing. Frightening. A new surge of fear lit up his insides; death loomed.

There were distractions to be found, though. The bloodshot whites. The damp eyelashes, clinging together in clumps. As he stared, his darkness-adjusted vision could just barely make out where the pupils met the irises. The brown was more complicated than he'd ever noticed in anyone's eyes before. Beautiful.

Hannibal quietly and hoarsely asked, "Will?"

It was hard to, but, considering he couldn't speak, Will nodded his head as much as he could. Some of the panic of not being able to breathe reached his face, but he steadily focused on Hannibal. That was when the pressure on his throat eased and he automatically gasped in a lungful of air.

"Will," Hannibal said, oddly gentle, his voice gravelly to the point of near-unintelligibility. "I killed the last man who tried to kill me."

Still gasping, pain beyond the physical lingering in his eyes, Will replied, "I know..."

"I don't want to kill you, Will," Hannibal whispered, half-breathless. If it hadn't been dead silent besides the drip of a faucet, Will would not have heard him. His hands were still wrapped dangerously close around Will's neck; Will could feel his own pulse jumping beneath them.

"I don't—" Will struggled to say. He was pressed to the floor, but his shivers travelled through Hannibal, and his teeth clattered. "I don't—" He gasped, forged on, "—want to..." He shook his head minutely, closed his eyes. Hannibal was dripping onto him, but the droplets that rolled down the sides of his face were tears. The pressure around his neck eased even more.

Hannibal sat back and assessed his patient, keeping him down with pressure on his collarbone and the weight of his body. The water was cold but that was probably not why Will was shivering; it was shock, excitement, that stirred him—much like when he had killed Hobbs. Hannibal, on the other hand, was steady, calm.

Something happened in Hannibal's eyes and the psychiatrist got off, having to practically fall onto his side to do so. Seeing him move that way, jilted and injured, made Will wince. The memories of what he'd done were blissfully blank, but at the same time it almost made things worse, not knowing.

Will propped himself up on one elbow and stared, as Hannibal watched him like a hawk. Other than the ugly-beautiful, red ring around his neck, there were burst veins in Hannibal's face, making his normally tan skin look red. Will was no doctor, and he had no clue if Hannibal would be okay. Even so, his eyes shined with both relief and worry. There was an awkward moment where he wondered what he could possibly say or do, and Hannibal sat and got his bearings.

The moment was over when Hannibal reached for his tie and intoned, more like his normal self, "On your stomach." Will only hesitated for a split-second, realizing almost immediately what Hannibal intended. He rolled onto the flooded floor, groaning with pain as his ribcage felt like it was on fire. His elbows shook as he focused on keeping the pressure off the front of his body.

"Hands behind your back," Hannibal ordered, the rasp in his voice adding a savage air to his words. Will hesitated longer this time, but he didn't think he should argue. He lowered himself down the rest of the way, stretching his neck back to keep his face out of the water, and brought his wrists together behind his back. The floor was wet and unpleasant, but he ignored it as best as he could.

Closing his eyes as Hannibal tied his wrists with the wet tie—suitably the one he'd choked the doctor with—Will tried his best to remember what had happened. Instead, all he could think of was Hannibal's limp form with that ring around his neck.

Hannibal patted his lower arm when he was finished tying the knot. Will rolled himself, hissing in pain, onto his side.

With the help of the sink Hannibal pulled himself up and stood over him, looking down. There was a moment where Will stared at his impeccable loafers and wondered how even his footwear embodied perfection.

"Will, get up."

Will glanced up but never saw his face. It was awkward. He decided that lying there wasn't an option anyway, so he did as he was asked. It was difficult with his hands tied tightly behind his back. With the use of his elbows and legs he could manage it, gasping and grunting in pain. Hannibal silently watched him for a moment, and Will wouldn't dare ask for his help.

While Will struggled to his feet, Hannibal turned to the mirror. In his own reflection he saw a dark triumph, along with anger, betrayal, and hurt. After removing the scant signs of these feelings from his visage, he cooly regarded the burst veins in his skin and the bruising around his neck. His skin would take some time to heal, and would require makeup. The bruises could be covered up with his normal dress collar and tie, though the thought of wearing a tie was cringe-worthy after what had just happened.

His neck ached, and he felt dizzy, but as a doctor he knew that with time he would be fine. The damage was minimal. He had only been choked to the point of unconsciousness, not oxygen deprivation. Then, it had been easy enough to fake running out of breath while submersed in the tub, though he had briefly lost consciousness while being pulled out. He was lucky to be alive; if water had entered his lungs he might have died, but that hadn't happened.

Hannibal had survived. Now, what to do with his patient?


	3. Part 3: In Will's Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Will is tied to a chair and Hannibal plays with his state of mind, to his advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we get to a bit of smut! Please let me know if you like it, I'm not really sure what I think of my own writing XD

> _"I know what kind of crazy I am. But, this isn't that kind of crazy."_

* * *

Hannibal walked out, his footsteps splashing lightly in the water. Seeing him leave, Will inhaled a deep breath and pushed with the little remaining strength he had left to get to his feet.

He stood disoriented for a moment, becoming preoccupied with the pain his body was feeling now that adrenaline was fading. His chest felt like it had been run over multiple times; perhaps ribs were sprained. His shins also hurt.

The moment of preoccupation passed, and Will realized Hannibal was not in sight. Will walked, limping slightly, to the living room, expecting him to be there. He wasn't, only his dogs were, and they looked at him with curiosity. He muttered a command to stay and they obeyed, except for Winston. The dog, eyes bright with affection, trotted over and sniffed at him. Ignoring this, Will turned and walked into the kitchen. Within moments Hannibal was walking in, holding two folded towels in a neat stack. He moved past Will without acknowledgement and placed the terrycloth pile on the kitchen table. When he was done he turned to appraise Will, but Will could barely look at him.

The investigator shook his head, coughed, then said, "With what I've done, I don't think this is enough," and lifted his tied wrists.

Hannibal suggested, his voice still gravelly, "...You want me to tie your legs?"

Will brokenly nodded, and bowed his head. "At least until the police arrive," he sullenly admitted.

Hannibal responded, "There will be no police." He grabbed a chair and placed it away from the table facing the room, leaving enough space that someone could walk fully around it. He indicated it with a pointed hand and commanded, "Have a seat." Crisp politeness masked his authoritative demeanor only partly. The rasp in his voice gave his words a threatening overtone, which Will found strangely frightening. There was nothing sinister in the other's stoic expression, though, and so he ignored the growing pit in his stomach.

Grimacing, he moved to the chair and sat down lightly on the edge of the seat. Apparently seeing how much pain he was in, Hannibal said, "I did not let you subdue me easily." There could have been a hint of flirtatiousness in his voice, if Will hadn't thought the idea ridiculous.

Will's eyebrows rose and he nodded, agreeing, "I can see that." He hesitated for a moment, and then continued, with confusion, "Aren't you going to call 911?" His face betrayed all his anxiety.

"No," Hannibal answered simply.

"At least call Jack!" Will protested, twisting to look at the other man.

Hannibal regarded him stoically. "What do you think would happen to you if I reported this?" After asking, he moved away into the living room, over to the fishing odds and ends Will had in one corner.

Will pondered this seriously. It hadn't occurred to him. As the doctor came back, Will's attention was on the rope he held; he missed that there was another object in his other hand, hidden from view. Hannibal hoarsely ordered, "Put your arms over the back of the chair," as he approached.

As awkward as it was with his hands tied, he nevertheless draped his arms over the seatback. Meanwhile, Hannibal moved in behind him and bound his arms to the chair, leaving the tie around his wrists. To distract himself from what was happening, Will finally muttered, "I'd end up in a loony bin."

"Exactly," Hannibal replied close to Will's ear. Will didn't move away. He continued, "And then who would catch all the _real_ insane murderers?" There was a snick of scissors as the extra rope was cut off, but he barely noticed.

Face screwed up into a stressed knot of emotion, Will asked, "Shouldn't you get medical attention?"

No response was forthcoming. There was some shuffling around behind him, then Hannibal was calmly saying, "Normally I would insist on propriety..." He partly circled Will to stand in front of him. "But, considering the situation we are in, I hope you will excuse me." The doctor's face betrayed nothing as he bent down close to Will, who was starting to feel like he should be alarmed by what Hannibal was saying and doing.

Hannibal's hands were suddenly on his belt buckle. Will lurched, futilely. Hannibal pressed down on his thighs before the small chair could topple over. "What—" Will started, but the rest of his question quickly died before reaching his lips. His thoughts were still not clear, his thoughts and reactions coming slowly.

Hannibal didn't bat an eye at his reaction, but merely pulled the brown leather of the belt through the buckle. From there he quickly undid Will's pants and began to tug them off. When progress was impeded by Will's position, he gave the teacher a pointed look. Will, frowning, complied by lifting his hips. Hannibal smoothly pulled his clothing off, leaving behind only his boxers to cover his privates.

It made him uncomfortable to be exposed like this. Embarrassment shuttered his eyes, his eyebrows drawn together with worry. He silently reassured himself he was being silly as, unbeknownst to him, Hannibal was staring at him with appreciation.

Moving methodically, Hannibal folded the pants in the air and went to hang them on the other chair. He came back with the rope and, kneeling, tied Will's ankles to the chair with the rope. When he was done he moved away; Will tested the knots with only enough force to feel that they were secure. He could barely move either leg, just as he could barely move his arms. The vulnerability of it hit him suddenly, and he closed his eyes, tried to relax. At least now he couldn't hurt anyone.

He heard Hannibal moving around but he was too busy silently panicking to notice what he was doing. When he felt a chilled touch on his upper arm and heard the sound of scissors closing, he tightened up within the ropes and twisted his neck to look. With careful precision Hannibal cut his shirt along his shoulder toward his neck, until it parted to reveal Will's shoulder and half his collarbone. He then repeated the action with the other side.

A gentle pressure on his back made Will lean forward as much as he could, making his already aching arms ache more, and he gulped as he felt the scissor travel in the air above his spine, cutting downward.

Hannibal bit his tongue as he revealed Will's back. There was natural elegance in the bunched up musculature, an allure Will didn't normally hold.

The ruined shirt slipped, but didn't fall off completely. Hannibal placed his hand, cold but dry, on the other's bare shoulder. The dull clunk of the scissor hitting the table made Will flinch. Then both hands were on his shoulders, almost like he was about to get a massage. Instead, one hand travelled down his damp skin, slowly, bringing his ruined shirt with it. Will shuddered; the touching felt good, but it made him anxious, too. He sat completely immobile, unsure how to react.

Hannibal gathered the remains of his shirt up into a pitiful bundle with enough force that Will felt the pressure on sensitive places. He gasped in surprise as his back curved. Then it was gone, and so was the touch; he heard Hannibal throwing it in the trash.

As Will shifted uncomfortably in the chair, Hannibal approached again, his eyes roaming over Will like a cat eyes a mouse. Will didn't notice, further embarrassment shuttering his eyes and flooding his face. He was being silly, of course—right? The air was cold but it was better than the damp clothing; that was all.

"I apologize for ruining your shirt, Will. I will buy you a new one," Hannibal said as he took up a place behind Will again. Will didn't respond, didn't know how to; he was completely powerless, and could only wait for what Hannibal would do. His mind kept coming back to the feeling of Hannibal's hands, and he almost forgot what sort of situation they were in.

"Will," Hannibal rasped from overhead. The hair on the back of Will's neck rose. With Hannibal looming behind him, he wasn't sure what would happen now. He swallowed hard, and nodded jerkily as acknowledgement.

"Do you know why you failed to kill me, Will?" Hannibal asked, sounding very much like he was talking to a dinner party guest despite his rough voice.

Will shut his eyes, the images of the aftermath of what he'd done flashing through his memory. He quickly shook his head and bit his lip.

"You surprised me from behind," he answered himself, silkily, "but you struck at the wrong time. Luckily."

"I'm sorry," Will responded immediately, knowing he was missing the full meaning of the other man's words, but he felt an all-too-familiar guilt washing over him. He shook his hanging head and worried his lip until he could no longer keep more words from tumbling forth. "One moment I was at the morgue with the others, then suddenly I was—" He felt tears prickling his eyes as the image of Hannibal's near-demise hovered, oppressive, in his head.

Hannibal went silent for a moment, unmoving. Will desperately wished he could see him, see if there was any forgiveness in him, or pity, or anything. He was stuck looking at his kitchen, a familiar sight that felt alien to him now.

"—choking me?" Hannibal finished for him. Will clamped down on himself but he couldn't stop his body from shaking silently with choked back emotion. He didn't want to believe it about himself, but he'd seen the result, couldn't deny it. Now that he was sitting and thinking, his emotions were overpowering.

"You don't remember anything?" Hannibal asked. That was the doctor side of him speaking, Will could tell.

Will shook his head again. "What's wrong with me?" he cried desperately, holding back as many sobs as he could. Some escaped, but in the depths of despair he found he didn't have the strength to be ashamed about it.

The psychologist's tone was clinical when he said, "You had a psychotic break from reality. Just like I warned you about."

Will mentally clung to those words, lifting his head slightly and turning as much as he could. He saw one side of Hannibal, his suit slimy in the dim light. Hannibal chose that moment to slip out of his sopping jacket, the wet cloth making slick sounds as it rubbed his equally wet dress shirt. He hung the jacket on the chair overtop Will's pants, and set to work unbuttoning his shirt.

Will turned away, finding himself flushing with sudden heat. He gnawed at his lip, intent on making no more sad sounds. His whole body was shaking again, and he felt soaked through, and not just with water.

From the corner of his eye he saw Winston sitting between the living room and the kitchen. Will hated how, in this moment, the innocent, trusting mutt was keeping his distance. Will was turning into a monster, he could feel it; did his dogs feel it too? Did they see? What if he hurt them? Or Hannibal, again? Or anyone else?

Hannibal's voice crashed in on his quiet panic—a welcome distraction, until he heard what he had to say. "You thought you were the serial killer that is killing those men and putting their dismembered corpses into bags?"

Will immediately uttered a no, not willing to think it. "I would remember _something_ if I was him. I can't be him."

"Will, calm down. I'm not suggesting you _are_ him, but that you thought, for a moment, you were him," Hannibal tried to reassure him.

He hung his dress shirt on a cabinet's handle, which put him in Will's view. He wore a crewneck undershirt, and Will found himself staring. He'd never thought about seeing him less than fully clothed. Even when he'd visited his house early in the morning the man had been in a robe and pajamas. He'd never be caught dead in undergarments, right? Yet, here he was, in just his undershirt—not only that, but a wet one. The thin white cloth left little to the imagination; every contour of his torso showed through.

Hannibal faced him and Will quickly looked away, staring at the floor and hoping the other man hadn't noticed him staring. It had been inappropriate.

The good doctor didn't remark on it if he did notice it. Trying to escape the awkwardness, Will asked, "Why aren't you calling the cops?! I'm a... danger!"

Hannibal, instead of answering, asked, "Why do you think you attacked me?" Will's only response was to shake his head, wondering the same thing himself. He couldn't understand himself anymore. This wasn't his kind of crazy. At least he'd thought so; now it was impossible to avoid the truth. Still, he wanted to deny it.

Hannibal moved closer, coming into the light streaming in through the half-closed curtains, and the shine of his wet skin drew Will's attention. His gaze flickered to him, then skittered away, only to return again. The doctor tilted his head as he watched this, amused. He folded his palms together and intently said, "Will, you said that the killer was lonely. You said you were lonely."

The revelation shocked Will, making his blood boil. "No," was all he could say, shaking his head vehemently. He tested his bonds with real effort for the first time and, while the chair creaked, he went nowhere. There would be no escape, Hannibal had ensured that.

"It is time to face this, Will. Please," he said. The light touch on Will's chin made him flinch, and he closed his eyes, causing tears to fall. Hannibal grasped his face fully, his thumbs rubbing over Will's cheeks, smearing off the tears. They lifted his face toward their owner's, and Will trembled.

In the quiet he heard Hannibal move, and a softness fell on his lips. He gasped, surprised, but Hannibal kissed it away. It started out gentle, testing. Will shivered with a shuddering exhale, and then kissed back. Immediately Hannibal bit lightly at his mouth, causing Will to whimper. The kiss became hungry, heated. Hannibal kept Will's head still and ravaged his mouth, and Will let him. His world became a hazy mess of lips and teeth and tongue. He was no match for the ferocity and he was left panting and aroused when it was over.

Fingers grazed lightly near his thighs and Will bucked, moaning. "Doc—" he gasped, finally looking up into Hannibal's face. There was a light smile there. His eyes gleamed with lust. A rush of arousal tingled through Will's body, settling in his manhood. That was when he realized he was already half-hard, and he was completely helpless to hide it. "Doctor, um..." he said, worried yet hopeful.

All of the significance of Dr. Lecter's gazes, his searing questions, his intense interest in Will, coupled with this new evidence, came back to Will in a powerful wave. Had it been that obvious before?

His thoughts drifted back to reality. "You know why I attacked you?" Will asked with true earnestness, before Hannibal could smother him with another kiss—Hannibal paused in his descent. Will's brows were furrowed, his eyelids twitching with the exertion of keeping them closed. Still smiling delicately, Hannibal whispered, "You will remember," before he pressed his lips firmly to Will's. Even though this was the second time, Will shivered with unexpected pleasure, his eyelids fluttering open then closed. He breathed Hannibal in and licked at his lips. His reward was Hannibal's probing tongue fucking his mouth, tasting him. A needy whine came from Will, and Hannibal chuckled and drew back.

"Untie me," Will begged. Hannibal tsked and pressed a finger over his lips. His response was a simple negative, and Will looked confused and worried. Hannibal's hand, which had settled on Will's inner thigh, stroked upwards. Hannibal enjoyed seeing a flash of pleasure go through the investigator's expression.

He withdrew, turning his back. As he calmly walked over to the cabinets he heard Will's frustrated grunt. The chair creaked as the ropes were tested again.

With a methodical precision Dr. Lecter drew his undershirt over his head in one smooth motion, then hooked the collar on a kitchen cabinet knob beside his other hanging shirt. Will, sucking on his lip nervously, watched him. The doctor's hands went to his belt buckle and pulled it off with the same smooth motion, and wound it into a tight loop, making Will bite down when he saw how Hannibal's muscles flexed.

What had been hidden under his suit had never really crossed Will's mind, but the psychologist looked different than he thought he would, toned like a younger man. As he placed the belt on the counter and touched the zipper of his pants he looked over his shoulder at Will. When their eyes met, Will felt his heart pounding in his hardon. His breath was ragged now from something besides fear and guilt.

Hannibal was very matter-of-fact when he said, "I am sorry Will, but I hope you are still willing to forgive this indiscretion—I'm not going to leave you alone as you are, and I did not wear underwear today." As he spoke he walked to the chair by the table, behind Will. When Will understood what that meant, he felt another rush of lust.

"Do you not normally do that?" Will asked, frowning. Then he realized how that sounded, and he blinked nervously and shook his head. "I mean, it's just...strange..."

Hannibal laughed, and mused, "I'm a man of simple pleasures. Good food, fine wine—and freedom." There was the sound of a zipper, more wet clothing moving, the thump of shoes coming off. Will looked around at the kitchen, but found no way to keep his mind off the fact that someone was getting naked behind him.

He wagered if he hadn't been tied down, it was entirely possible he'd have Hannibal underneath him by now. As it was, he was left with an aching need and unable to do anything about it. He wondered if it was just loneliness, or he was actually attracted to Hannibal. After all, he was surprised by his own feelings and the intensity of them. Even so, he couldn't stifle them, not after those kisses. But, he was glad he wasn't free to act on his impulses anymore, unsure of what he'd do.

Hannibal began to dry himself off with one of the towels he'd brought in. When he was done he wrapped it around his lower half and approached Will with the other towel. He started by gently patting off Will's face, then moving down, and down. He hovered near Will's crotch and pointedly stared. "Your boxers are soaked through, cold and wet, and yet here you are," he said, ending with a hand over Will's erection. Will sucked in a breath and threw his head back, staring all the while at Dr. Lecter. He could do nothing about the touch; it was maddening. "Hannibal, please," he moaned, trying to buck up into his hand. Hannibal's hand remained there, unmoving, with his gaze intense.

He leaned forward and whispered into the other's ear, "Patience, dear Will." His breath stirred the base of Will's neck, raising goosebumps. He stayed like that as he replaced his hand with the towel and rubbed, which only served to tease. Will whined with need and struggled against the ropes, and gasped as Hannibal stroked harder, giving him just enough to cause stars to dance across his vision.

Then he was moving on, gently wiping away the dampness on his legs. When he reached his feet he looked up at Will from a half-kneeling position. The towel he wore around his waist was open, but from his angle he could only see a hint of what lay beneath.

Will was surprised when Hannibal set the towel he used to dry Will off to the side, and warm hands travelled up his legs. "It seems," Hannibal said, his voice low and husky, "you are in need of therapy of a particular kind."

"Therapy?" Will asked breathily, trying and failing to be sarcastic. The hands were at his thighs now and he couldn't do anything but twitch as Hannibal drew nonsense across his skin. Hannibal bowed down and pressed his lips to Will's knee, and began kissing upwards, reaching up with his hands also. Will could feel how fast Hannibal was breathing as it ghosted over his skin; he'd appeared so calm and collected, but it seemed he was not as aloof as he appeared. Will thought it must be taking him a great amount of self restraint to go this slow. It was sweet of him, but Will didn't like it.

"I—I want..." Will stuttered. "I want that therapy." Hannibal withdrew and studied him with piercing eyes, causing Will to hum quietly with lewd dismay at being denied more kisses. It was a similar stare he had when practicing psychology, yet darker, with more yearning. Will felt another thrill of fear, instinctual, but this only increased his arousal. Hannibal grasped his cock suddenly, like a vice. Will choked on his next breath and his whole body shuddered. Hannibal growled, "Are you sure?" Chills went down Will's spine.

Hannibal already knew the answer to his own question. The psychologist saw right through Will, saw his desire when even he didn't understand. "Don't fuck around with me!" Will muttered angrily, his voice not as harsh as it would normally be, considering what Hannibal was holding like he'd tear it off.

The doctor smiled with a hint of triumph.

He quickly tugged off Will's boxers in a way that was both gentle enough not to hurt but hurried enough to expose his own need. When they were at his knees he stopped and smoothed his hands back up Will's thighs, which twitched at the contact.

The way Will's legs were tied to the chair meant he couldn't spread his legs wider, but he wanted to. Every part of him was tense, waiting. Hannibal pressed his face down on his inner thigh, kissing, then biting hard enough to hurt. Will's body tried to thrash but couldn't, the chair making rude squeaking noises as it quivered. The chair stayed in place thanks to Hannibal's steadying hands. He was bit again, higher this time, and Will moaned. Some part of him had expected nothing less of Hannibal. That part of him craved it.

While he was partly distracted by the biting, Will heard and felt the light inhalation of breath from the man cherishing his thighs. Hannibal was smelling him, not unlike that time he'd tried to smell Will from behind without him knowing. But, again, Will noticed. He'd been annoyed at the invasion of privacy the first time, but this time it was intimate, arousing; his erection pulsed. Hannibal kissed down then, so very close to his balls that he could feel the touch through the core of his body. A strangled gasp of pleasure, and a moment later Will felt Hannibal mouthing the juncture where his thigh met his hip.

This was torture. "Dr. Lecter, please," Will moaned.

Ignoring him, Hannibal went upwards, kissing at Will's stomach, which twitched and heaved under the attention. Further up, his lips found one of Will's nipples, and bit down. "Ah!" Will exclaimed, straining his body against the ropes. He was rarely touched there and to his memory never bitten, and he was startled to find how intensely pleasurable, bordering on pain, it was. Hannibal then licked it followed by gnawing at it again, and Will moaned and cursed under his breath.

When the doctor trailed kisses on his way to the other one, Will uttered, "No," but it did nothing to stop a similar assault, which made Will struggle in the ropes again, the sound of it loud in the otherwise quiet room.

As Hannibal licked at his chest he lightly grazed his hand over Will's erection, which was rock solid. Groaning at the tease, the special investigator bucked his hips awkwardly, an action closer to rubbing himself on the chair in his present position. "No," he half-moaned, half-gasped. It had been so long that he felt like he might come just from this little bit of attention.

When Hannibal grasped him fully and began to slowly stroke, Will, desperate, squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded, "Please, doctor! I'm so close, please!" Hannibal seemed not to hear him and continued to slowly stroke his manhood. Will hated to beg, didn't want to grovel, but he was at his wit's end. Despite more whispered pleas, Hannibal moved up to his collarbone, lips sucking at the sharp edges. "Oh god," Will said and automatically turned his head away. Hannibal's nose went to the flesh of his bared neck, inhaling deeply, then serenely stating, "You're so naive, Will. But I will teach you. Consider this your first lesson."

What was Hannibal talking about, Will wondered. His confusion broke Will out of a haze of pleasure, and he sputtered, "Wh—what?" He could feel the smirk against his neck. Teeth suddenly dug into the column of his neck and he made a strangled moan sound, but found himself conflicted as his mind conjured images of Hannibal tearing out his throat. Lost within this vision, he almost didn't notice Hannibal stop and whisper, his raspy voice as calm as the air before the storm. "...right timing. Wait until the victim is unprepared, vulnerable. Unable to fight back."

A fear settled in Will's stomach, one he couldn't ignore. Reality came startlingly in focus. His kitchen, revealed in what little light streamed in between the partially closed curtains, was suddenly clear as day. Hannibal was solid and real as he hovered so close, his naked skin radiating warmth. His hips pressed against Will's inner knees, his hands gliding up his shoulders, over his collarbone, to his neck. As they wrapped around and pressed just enough that Will felt the strength hovering behind Hannibal's control, Hannibal licked the shell of his ear.

As Will shivered, Hannibal whispered to him, like a lover, "And then their life is in your hands. They can't stop you."

Having someone pressed so near, touching, felt so good, but what he was saying was so very wrong. "Don't," Will groaned.

Hannibal lifted himself to a standing position, took a step over to stand beside, and ran one hand around to the back of Will's head. His fingers grasped at brown curls and yanked, forced Will to look up. Meanwhile the other hand went to the towel around Hannibal's waist and tugged, letting it fall to the ground. Will's eyes fell on Hannibal's sizable erection, and another surge of fear, titillating, made his eyes go wide.

He couldn't help but make a mental comparison; the good doctor was larger than him. He felt a pang of jealousy. Ridiculous, really.

Hannibal saw all the emotions going through Will, each with their own microexpression that he'd gotten very good at spotting. The one that stuck out most of all was the adorable fear.

He grasped Will's hair tighter, smiling as Will grimaced, and guided his erection toward Will's mouth with a simple, "Suck." The short kitchen chair put Will at almost the perfect height for it.

Will's immediate reaction was sudden realization, with a timid cry of, "Ah! No." He glanced up at Hannibal's face uncertainly, trying to gauge how serious he was. Of course, he was very serious.

Hannibal used his grasp on Will's hair to press his head down toward his cock, and slid himself over closed lips. He could feel Will's whimpering breaths across his length, which was an incredible cock tease. He felt no guilt in blackmailing Will into this; he stated, "Will, as you were,"—he paused for emphasis—"choking me"—Will whimpered harder—"all I could think about was how much I wanted to tell you what you meant to me." He loosened his hold in Will's mop of hair and stroked his fingers through the messy locks.

Will had closed his eyes when Hannibal pressed against his mouth, and he kept them shut as he gasped in a large breath and parted his lips. That was all the permission the psychologist needed to press himself inside. It was warm and wet around him, and he thanked Will by moaning deeply. He drew back slowly, and then surged forward again, mindful of hitting Will's throat. Will gagged anyway, and after Hannibal had drawn back he gave him an extra second before he thrust in again. He did so again, and again, in a slow, enjoyable rhythm, and with great pleasure.

Will found himself being helplessly face-fucked, but it wasn't rough and unkind like he would expect of a forced act. The taste was mild, kind of good actually, and the heady scent of _Hannibal_ was likeable enough. Though he was scared and unready, he soon found himself enjoying it. His flagging erection became rock hard again, and his arousal rushed through him, staining his cheeks and chest pink.

He needed to be touched, badly wanted Hannibal to return the favor. Will moaned, and tried to draw back and look up, but Hannibal kept his head down and continued to pump his hard-on into his mouth. Will whimpered and shifted within the ropes.

"Suck harder," Hannibal said, speaking quickly from passion. He moaned as Will did as he commanded; it was getting too good. His tempo increased, pressing in harder and faster. Will struggled to keep his teeth off, finding it take most of his concentration, yet the distraction did nothing to curb his desire.

Then the desire got too much; he moaned around the flesh in his mouth. Hannibal's rushing breath, hinting at his approval, made Will shudder with delight. That was when his teeth met Hannibal's cock, and Hannibal made an uncharacteristic, quiet grunt and thrust in deeper than ever before; Will gagged, half-choked, and felt cum filling his mouth and throat. He coughed and gagged, making horrible retching noises, and felt like he might throw up. He was greatly relieved when Hannibal forcefully separated Will's head from his lagging erection.

Hannibal was breathing hard, shaking slightly, when Will looked up at him with glassy eyes. As he felt the white liquid dripping from his mouth down his chin and onto his chest, he coughed a couple more times and then closed his mouth carefully.

Hannibal looked down at him with eyes at half-mast, yet greedy to see. As ever his face was unreadable, except that there was something like happiness in the lines of his face.

As he returned the look, Will wondered: was this consensual/ethical/right? Or was it rape/unethical/wrong? Or some combination?

The confusion must have been in his eyes because Hannibal smiled gently and wiped at his stained lips and chin with his thumb. "Swallow," Hannibal whispered. Will felt nauseous at the thought, but did it anyway, unwilling to spit—where?—in front of his doctor. His eyelids fluttered, and he gasped in a breath, but he returned his gaze to Hannibal's.

"Very good, Will," Hannibal said in a congratulatory manner, and brought his own sullied thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean. Will licked his lips, tasted the same thing Hannibal was tasting; it matched the sticky feeling he felt in his throat.

Hannibal's hand slid from Will's hair to rest at his side; he stood just as he did in a suit, poised and proper, even though he was buck naked. He took a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the afterglow of orgasm.

Then Hannibal's eyes were again open. He moved from Will's side, Will following his every move. A hint of a smirk on his face, Dr. Lecter turned to the sink and cabinets and got Will a cup of water. Will gratefully accepted the drink when placed at his lips, and swallowed the steady trickle of water he was given. Then the cup was gone, and Will felt like his body was so hot it was about to combust.

"Doctor..." he began, but Hannibal had returned with a cloth and was wiping at his scruffy chin. Will felt like a small child then, and just as vulnerable as one. His breath shuddered and he shifted his hips, drawing Hannibal's gaze to his erection.

"You are submitting faster than I expected," Hannibal admitted, wiping at the other's chest briefly before throwing the soiled cloth onto the closest surface. For a moment he stood a foot away in all his bronze, nude glory. Will couldn't keep his eyes still; they skittered about randomly, overwhelmed. The idea that he was "submitting" was uncomfortable, and he retaliated with a hint of anger, "Do I have a choice?"

"Heh," Hannibal laughed once in his throat, amused. "No, I suppose you do not."

Hannibal crouched and put his hands on his captive's knees. It put him in a compromising position, but he didn't seem to notice or care. His hands travelled up as he said, sounding every bit like his friend, his psychologist, "What do you think about this situation?"

Will was frantic, but he tried to cool his expression, tried to focus on the question and not those _hands_. Those well-manicured, strong hands...

"I–I'm going _fucking crazy_ ," Will said passionately, "I cho–... I ch—" But he couldn't say it. So he continued, "And your response is to put me in an... _unofficial_ prison, like you're my _unofficial_ psychologist. I think this is..." He paused briefly, huffed, and continued, "You're bullying me. After what I did, I... I deserve it. But..."

Hannibal suddenly grasped Will's cock in both hands and rubbed, not enough to chafe but enough to make Will feel like every cell in his brain was in his dick. His next words rushed out before he could stop them. "I want you to fuck me."


	4. Part 4: In Will's Kitchen... and mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Will's "confession", Hannibal can't resist. Will remembers. The tables are turned.

After he let out those words—totally uncalled for—Will ashamedly studied the ceiling, shuddering. He realized how nebulous the word "fuck" was, how it could be interpreted by a man. He was quick to try to backtrack. "I mean, I want to—"

Before he could finish clarifying, Hannibal's lips were crushed over his own and a tongue was seeking shelter in his mouth. The kiss was passionate, ferocious. Then just as quickly as it came it was gone. Hannibal rushed away behind him and for a moment Will wondered if he'd said something wrong. But no, the doctor returned with the scissors and carefully cut the ropes, first from his ankles, then his arms. He helped Will stand when he saw how shaky he was, and led him to the table. Then he pushed at Will's back, and Will found himself laying on his stomach, the table's surface cold in contrast to his arousal-heated skin. His rear faced the room. "Stay," Hannibal commanded and rapidly walked to a cabinet.

Will, offended at the treatment, uprighted himself with great effort, pain flaring through his chest and legs. He protested, "If you treat me like a dog, I may bite like one."

Hannibal gave him a disapproving look as he walked back over with a bottle of oil. "Or bark," he responded condescendingly.

Will queried, "Cooking oil?" before he felt a hand on his back, pressing him down again. The touch was light but demanding. Will flinched as he obeyed unwillingly, prodded on more by the lingering pain in his body than submission. Hannibal kept a steady pressure on his shoulder-blades for a moment, cementing his wish for the investigator to stay there.

The freshly opened bottle suffused the air around them with a hint of soybeans, reminiscent of the smell of frying food. A moment later the bottle thudded down on the table and a slick finger was at Will's hole. He shivered and tried to move away, even used his tied hands to try to push back at Hannibal, but his fumbling attempts did nothing to stop it from pressing in. He cried out, "Dammit, I didn't mea— ngh!" and then the finger breached the tight ring of muscle, and his throat closed up.

"I disagree. I think you spoke true to your feelings," Hannibal said calmly, carefully twisting his finger inside. "Stay honest with me, Will."

His finger encountered tremendous resistance. Patient though he was, Hannibal was wrapped up in the heady power of the situation. He moved in quickly, swirling, knowing well the sensation he was giving Will and hoping Will would fall to lust, and relent.

Will whimpered and twisted his body as Hannibal quickly added another slick finger. The invasion was unpleasant and mind-blowing at the same time. He'd never been touched there. As the fingers explored near his entrance, tense and spasming, his engorged cock was pressed into the cool, hard surface of the table. Was he so turned on that he liked this? Or did he just like this?

Will didn't normally curse a lot, but he was cursing now; it was angry, yet Hannibal detected pleasure in tiny inflections of his voice. It spurred him on, and after a minute or so his ring finger joined the others, slowly. Will, gasping heavily at the table's surface, tightened and spasmed around him. The fingertips felt around inside until Will's legs spasmed, pushing him up and forward into the table, straining to get away from the intense pleasure crashing in on him. Hannibal kept him down with stronger pressure on his upper back and continued to assault that spot with all three fingers.

" **Doctor!** " Will exclaimed. "Dr. Lecter, _please_!"

At the begging, Hannibal felt lost. He was not in control any longer, and—as if irked—he withdrew his fingers with a savage yank. That caused quite the reaction, Will's body seeming to go in all directions at once as he cried out. Hannibal used his slick hand to guide his manhood to press against Will's entrance. "No, no, please, no," Will whimpered, only making the sensation of sinking inside him that much sweeter.

A hand smoothed soothingly over his back as the intrusion broke into him. Overwhelmed, Will sobbed, unsure if his vocalizations were from pain or pleasure. The sensation was one of being split in all directions, as if cracking open; and, of being full and complete, burning.

The very air vibrated with Hannibal's heaving breaths behind him. The hard length went still, catering to his virginity. A restrained moment was given to him to adjust to this, in more ways than one.

Will felt his world was fracturing around him. His thoughts were scattered in a whirlwind of battling emotions. But one clear train of thought possessed him: he wished he hadn't trusted Dr. Lecter in this. He should have called Jack, called 911, let himself be put away safe though unsound.

Hannibal was rigid. He contained his passion for now. Beneath him was his opposite and equal. Will seemed dazed, unhealthy but alright, while he lay still. It was a good-enough acceptance. Hannibal saw it often with his victims; they would fight until that moment, that moment when they saw his greatness and accepted his mastery of their fate. They gave in.

With a little sigh, Will unclenched. His muscles seemed to liquify, and he became pliant. Hannibal breathed his own sigh, relief and excitement thrilling through his body.

Hannibal began to rock back and forth, working himself in. Around his cock Will fluttered, having not surrendered completely.

Will groaned. His whole body shivered in little waves with each thrust. There was pain from being forced open so wide, and from his chest leaning on the table, but this paled in comparison to the pleasure that overtook him. Perhaps he was delirious—but soon it didn't matter. Hannibal did something to hit that miraculous spot inside him and he hissed, "Ouh!" with surprised delight.

Hannibal kept thrusting just like that, the sound of slick friction and a creaking table accompanying. Will remained tense but he started to lean back into it, subtly provoking him to go faster and harder. Soon he was panting and moaning in tempo. The fullness intensified. If he hadn't been lying on the table he'd have fallen to the floor.

With each thrust of his hips Hannibal's breath hissed out blissfully. He kept his hand on Will's tailbone and used his other hand to smack Will hard on the ass. It made Will buck beneath him, and he thrust in hard once—Will cried out—before returning to his former rhythm.

Will was now quivering with an oncoming orgasm that just wouldn't come. It was incredibly gratifying for Hannibal. His poor patient's voice trembled as he muttered, voice high with pleasure, "I can't— Please I can't— I need to—"

Smirking, Hannibal smacked his ass hard again then smoothed the quickly reddening flesh as he hoarsely asked, "What do you want, Will?"

Will's response was an audible pant of frustration and repressed passion as Hannibal continued to fuck him. His hands fisted and his arms and back tensed. He seemingly tried to back up, his feet dancing, but that only painfully impaled him more, so he stopped.

Looking back over his shoulder at Hannibal made shooting pain go through his torso, the strain of which showed plainly on his face. Hannibal was calm and haughty as he thrust inside over and over, admiring Will below him. Will could tell that the good doctor knew exactly what Will wanted, but was teasing him with an open-ended question, the kind psychologists liked to use. The kind that made Will sick.

"You _know_...!" Will accused, gritting his teeth.

Hannibal tilted his head as he looked down into Will's faraway gaze, which seemed focused past his head. "There is no reason to be shy," the psychologist said. "We are _adults_ , aren't we?" He moved slower, though each thrust reached deeper.

Will let himself fall flat again and groaned. This whole time he had been so close, on edge. He was no match for Hannibal in these games, not now. His world was hazy, like in a fog. In that fog there was a beacon of light; a cold rage, building with each movement of the cock inside him. In contrast, his hatred of Freddie Lounds was white-hot, malicious; this rage taking hold, however, was a building tidal wave.

The rage was familiar. He could hear an echo of Hannibal's voice, clear as day, in his ear. He looked over to the source, in the living room, saw Hannibal standing near his front door in a coat.  _'It's not a breach of etiquette if I am here as your friend, Will. You asked me to be here for that purpose.'_

Will's eyelids fluttered. He suddenly felt distant from his body, numb.

There had been a phone call. Will had felt lonely and twisted. Hannibal had arrived a few hours later. It was still daylight out when the psychologist came in, greeting Will with a small smile. They'd talked about the case; Will had lamented that he couldn't quite understand, and Hannibal had said:

_'Have you never had something in your life so important, you'd kill for it?'_

How was it that Hannibal seemed to intuitively understand things that even Will couldn't imagine? Gently, as always, he would guide Will to the answer. This time, Will couldn't intuit the deeper meaning, so he'd asked,

_'Can you show me?'_

He'd meant a mental walkthrough or a drawing, something like that. Yet Hannibal had approached him, obviously taking the request literally; Will's heart beat faster. _'If it will help you, Will, then yes.'_ Will had stood up uncertainly, let Hannibal drag the armchair away from the wall.

With practiced ease Hannibal had pulled off his tie as he sat in the chair, holding out the tie to Will as if he'd know what to do with it. As if in a trance, Will took it and went to stand behind Hannibal.

This was new. He'd never tried actually role-playing. His work had always remained in his own mind. As uncomfortable as he felt, he still looped the tie over his friend's head. That was all he could let himself do; he let it hang loosely, not even close to touching his neck. Still, Hannibal had said, _'See?'_

 _'No,'_ Will had said.

He could hear the jeer in Hannibal's voice as he asked, _'Will, how does it make you_ feel _?'_

Will let the tie go, let it tumble down before Hannibal could grab it and turn to face him. The special investigator made up some excuse, something like, _'I'm not sure what your point is, Doctor.'_ But he was lying. He'd _seen_.

Will's kitchen came into focus suddenly, as if he was waking from a dream. Had that been a real memory, or just his imagination filling in the blanks in his memory? He didn't know, couldn't know.

What was happening to his body came surging back into his consciousness. He bucked as the pleasure returned with force. There was very little pain now amidst the overwhelming pleasure, which he easily allowed to overtake his consciousness. He simply lay there and took everything Hannibal gave him.

"I see you're back," Hannibal said, his roughened voice dimly scraping over Will's ears. "Stay with me." There was passion in his words, with every motion he made. The pleasure was accumulating, for them both. Hannibal felt like was about to come, but he kept it at bay by slowing to gentleness. He leaned forward, placing one hand on the table and, the other still guiding Will's ass, continued to thrust inside that delicate heat. "It's alright that you feel angry. Express it. Release it. _That_ is therapy."

"And let it drown us both?" Will ground out through clenched teeth. "I'd rather see you drown alone."

Hannibal scraped his nails over Will's lower back, just hard enough to leave pink lines. The flesh beneath tensed. "Anger is a feeling, just like pain. In fact," Hannibal responded, calm yet out of breath, "they are _intimately_ entwined. Pain can arouse anger. Anger is—in its own way—a harbinger of pain. Taste it, revel in it. Are you  _alive_?"

Will squeezed his eyes shut, closed off his throat, tried to shut everything out. He could feel Hannibal's words reverberating in his skull. Release tantalized him.

He felt something intangible drop out of him. Like a coin in a well. There was a fort, and the anger was beyond it, lost to a wilderness.

"I'm not angry," he grumbled.

"Good," Hannibal panted as he thrust a little faster, almost at his former speed. "You want this, then."

Without agreeing or disagreeing, he said, "I just want..." Will pressed his face to the table, caught himself before he could admit he felt anything close to good. "I just want the pain to stop!" It was true; his body ached and his tied hands tingled sharply in warning.

The change was immediate and drastic. Hannibal was suddenly gentle, touching him soothingly, rubbing his groin up to Will's ass only to tease Will's prostate. "I'm sorry, Will," he said, and it sounded like he meant it. " _You are..._ " His warm hands smoothing over his back sent electric thrills of pleasure through Will.

Will waited with bated breath to hear what Hannibal was going to say. _I'm what?_ he thought. But the sentence was never finished. Those warm hands left, and he felt them on his half-numb lower arms. Soon his wrists were free. With a groan Will brought his arms underneath himself, trying and failing to forget there was still a dick inside of him. At least now his wrists were no longer chafing, and there was no pressure on his chest.

"Better?" Hannibal asked, sounding hopeful even with that awful rasp.

"Yes," Will muttered, not sure how to take this turn of events. He wasn't sure what this _was_ , what was happening between them, if this was warranted... The echoes of what had happened were filtering into his brain, piecemeal, abruptly. He wasn't sure... _who_ he was.

They were in the living room, or had been. Will dimly recognized the change in daylight as a change in time. Will had clammed up due to the earlier demonstration, and Hannibal didn't push him. Somehow they had ended up talking about boat motors. Will showed him the one he was working on, how he'd fixed it somewhat, what he still had to do. Hannibal had seemed interested, in that omnidirectional way of his. Will thought he was faking it.

They talked about fishing, too, and other things. Time passed faster than he was used to when he was home, in the calm slowness of the countryside. Hannibal seemed to make everything faster. Will had found himself recalling how Hannibal referred to him as a friend. He barely noticed most of the time, since the word was meaningless. Yet he'd found himself understanding the significance when Hannibal looked at the time and said he'd need to start driving home.

As if he was reliving it, Will felt now what he'd felt then. Desperation.

Hannibal refused every offer to stay, making it very clear he couldn't. He was going for his coat. He never got to it.

Back in reality, Will made a sound like a wounded animal. He'd done it. With intention. Maybe he had channeled the killer he was studying, couldn't pick himself apart from the persona. Or perhaps he'd just _wanted to_.

"Will?" Hannibal asked, worried by Will's sudden behavior. He was vulnerable, and didn't know it.

Will twisted his body and backhanded him. The blow was solid, aggressive, and Hannibal grunted in pain and stepped back suddenly, inadvertantly pulling out. Will cried out at the feeling, the sudden emptiness.

Now there was only pain. Hannibal had said it himself: pain was anger, anger was pain.

Will rose quickly and slammed his body into Hannibal like a linebacker before he could react. They stumbled together, Will using this to his advantage to yank Hannibal's arm hard enough to spin him at the same time he pulled himself back. Hannibal tripped over his own feet and fell, Will falling on top of him to press him facedown into the floor.

It happened so quickly. And then time seemed to slow down. Everything that happened next came easily. The doctor felt so real beneath him, hot and solid. He knew he couldn't keep him down, knew he'd never had the upper hand, not even now. So he moved quickly. Still, it was strange how easy it was getting him into position; he let go just long enough for Hannibal to push himself up into a kneel. Just where he wanted him.

With a wild energy he didn't know he possessed, Will grabbed Hannibal's hip and pressed his rock-hard manhood to Dr. Lecter's hole and thrust; Hannibal grunted sharply in pain. Even wet with precum it didn't go in. There was too much resistance.

Hannibal began to retaliate, but Will shoved him down by the shoulders and used his thighs to corral Hannibal's. Hannibal was quiet considering he was being held down, bent almost in half; however, he made a drawn-out, low noise in his throat that pierced the cooly quiet room. The rage dancing around the periphery of his mind kept Will from feeling bad about that. He would even call it satisfying.

With his shoulders pressed to the floor, Hannibal's head was uncomfortably craned to the side. Will could see half his face, which was closed off and blank. His hair was falling in straight short waves onto the floor. Every line of muscle in his back was taut.

Will's hips insistently pressed forward, but he was only going to keep slipping past at this rate. He spit at the cleft of Hannibal's ass and swayed back and forth, working himself in. As his cock finally slid inside, encased in tight heat, he moaned. Hannibal bucked and his lips parted. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows flat, and he looked less like he was in pain and more like he was meditating despite his gaping mouth. His body belied this notion, however, as it undulated beneath Will's handling.

Now that there was pleasure again, the savagery was drifting away, partly placated. He continued thrusting minutely. "How does it _feel_ , Doctor?" Will growled. The doctor didn't answer.

Will thrust harder. Hannibal gasped, "Will!" The way he'd said his name made a thrum of pleasure course through Will. His face was still tense and closed off, but he was panting in time with each thrust. "Will..." Hannibal said quieter, almost whispering.

It shouldn't have been so pleasurable to do this. Will knew what he was doing was wrong, especially as the anger dissipated, replaced by something else. He had control over the one man who seemed to always be in control... All of this should be disgusting. It wasn't.

Will felt powerful.

He came with an unrestrained moan, overpowered by the intensity of his orgasm. He thrust more, reveling in the feeling of spurting inside until he was empty, hollow. As he slowed, he gripped Hannibal's shoulders and leaned heavily, breathing hard, suddenly exhausted.

The investigator felt disoriented by the intensity he'd just experienced, like he wasn't sure what had happened over the past hour. But he clamped down against this feeling, keeping these moments firmly in his mind, willing himself not to drift away.

When he realized he was still holding the other man down doing nothing, he gently pulled back and out. Hannibal shivered with a shuddering breath. Will felt himself burning with shame as he saw the evidence of his orgasm dribbling down Hannibal's thighs. In fact, he felt a lot of things wash over him in dizzying waves.

His thoughts turned to what happened after he'd grabbed Hannibal by the tie. Before all this, before he'd "woken" in his bathroom, their fight had been brutal. Hannibal was slightly bigger, after all, and hadn't allowed him to choke him, not completely. He'd been surprisingly strong, too. By the time he finally fell unconscious Will had taken many hard impacts to his ribs and shins. Will remembered dragging him into the bathroom and preparing the bath. As he'd hauled him up to dip his face into the water, Hannibal woke up and thrashed against it. His height advantage gone, his strength fleeing him, he'd resorted to pushing back, worsening the bruising over Will's body. It hadn't been enough to deter Will in that disassociated state.

He couldn't believe he'd done all that. It was like he was someone else, but he didn't feel like someone else at the time. It was eerie.

Will found himself hyperventilating, and then Hannibal was there, wrapping his warmth around him. If he hadn't been unable to breathe, Will thought he may have chuckled darkly at the man he'd attacked—twice, now—holding him like this. He didn't have the strength to push him away, or perhaps it felt too good to be held.

Hannibal whispered nothings to him and Will found himself calming substantially. Once he had a good grasp on his breathing, the investigator said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me..."

"Will," Hannibal whispered, not even a hint of recrimination in his voice. "Listen to me. You don't need to apologize. In fact, all you had to do was ask."

Will, unable to think clearly, dumbly said, "Ask...?"

"I don't need to be _dead_ before I enjoy your company, Will." Before Will could fully understand this statement, he continued, "Have you remembered what you lost?"

"Yes," Will admitted, voice low. "But this wasn't therapy."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. Will felt and heard him breathing: the movement pressing into his back in a stable rhythm, with puffs of warm air brushing against his temple. He was warm and alive, and Will wondered why he'd wanted him dead. The necrophiliac killing people was no one to aspire to.

Will heard Hannibal's lips part before he spoke. "Not therapy, then. Something between friends, perhaps?" His voice was still raspy, and Will thought it might be ridiculous to call each other friends now. That didn't stop him from feeling a bit of a smile grace his face for a brief moment at the idea.

"Shall we get cleaned up?" Hannibal suggested. Will could only nod in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this done? Do you want an epilogue or continuation? Let me know in the comments! :)
> 
> My tumblr is morbiditty.tumblr.com and my fanfic site is h3fanfics.wordpress.com.


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